Scars
by AmayaSora
Summary: Dawn breaks over Diagon Alley and Draco Malfoy has made up his mind to rid himself once and for all of the Mark, the biggest mistake of his life. So why is Harry Potter there, stalling him, convincing him not to go through with it? What's the point of scars, anyway? HPXDM pre-slash if you wanna read it that way.


**This had been sitting in my files for a long time... I don't even know how long. But I felt, given all that's going on lately in the world, the country, my friends' lives, that the world could use a little hope and joy. And I'm writing something but this is the quickest way to deliver it. **

**Experience pain- experience **_**life**_**- get scars, but keep them. Let them shape you and enhance you, not define you. **

**-AmayaSora**

**Story Inspired by this picture: 25 dot media dot tumblr . com (slash)tumblr(underscore)m9qmsnfMeV1rdvazpo1(underscore)500 dot jpg**

Scars

Dawn did not break gently over Diagon Alley. It seeped in like water, pouring over the top of the steepled roofs of the eastern shops, spreading until the cobblestones were bathed, then flooded, with sunshine. This early, though, the light was still the pale grey of first daybreak.

Draco Malfoy was thankful for the low light, for more reasons than one. The drab hue of his robes didn't stick out as much as it would have later; it even seemed appropriate somehow. The flashy wares in the windows he passed didn't gleam in the sun, the bright signs that heralded the boom that was the post-war year weren't mocking. The shadowy path that led into Knockturn Alley looked just like any other side street at this hour.

But the best thing, the entire reason he'd scheduled his appointment this ungodly early, was the blessed emptiness of the place. He could hear each footfall clearly, striding along as he was, and the echoing wasn't even loud enough to obscure a second set of steps. Draco was all alone in the street, just as he liked it. He'd never liked crowds, all those people packed into one small space, clamoring for the same bit of road and air, wending this way and that, contacting his person in ways most unwanted. The feeling had increased tenfold since the war- the trial, really, when he had discovered an even worse type of crowd: a united one, all lurching forward together, hurling insults and objects and a few hexes with one intent, one accord, united by their hatred. All it took was one person recognizing him for who- _what_, he was, and it would begin.

Now, though, Draco was alone, and he thought the extra money he'd spent to secure this appointment well worth it, even if it meant he hadn't had dinner the night before. He could just get in and get out and no one would ever see him. There'd be no reason to-

"I wouldn't." The voice was soft, but in the stillness of the Alley even that was jarring. Granted, it would have been jarring at _any _volume, and in any circumstance, considering whom it belonged to. Draco was quite proud of himself, for although he stiffened he didn't break stride, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the uneven stones before him. He could pretend he hadn't heard and go about his business unhindered.

"You'll regret it."

Draco whirled around, a bitter retort on his tongue- _you don't know a _thing _about regret. In a thousand lifetimes you'd never feel even half as much as I do, so stop talking to me like you have an idea what regret even means- _but it died as soon as he glimpsed Potter standing there, leaning against the brick wall of the building, a small shrub at his back with some of the twigs poking at his robe. His hair was unruly as ever, sticking every which way- careless. He had every reason to be; the Savior, the Hero, set for life. His robe even proved it, fine silk fabric that it was. Draco could just make out the last stitch on the collar, the loop a signature of a well-known tailor that he himself used to frequent, before- well, before. He'd gotten new glasses, too, in the same shape but with thinner, wire frames, almost invisible, as if the glass was just floating of its own accord, mesmerized by the man's eyes. As if he was that attractive, that desirable...

"You're a fine one to talk," Draco retorted, with a very pointed look at his forehead, unruly locks tamped down, obscuring the famous lightning bolt.

Potter made a face and flattened his fringe again. "That's different. I didn't earn this one; it's all my mum. Because she died for me."

Unbidden, Draco's mind brought forth a flash of memory: one of his earliest; he had tripped on one of the rock in the garden and scraped his knee pretty badly, and his mother and cradled him and cooed softly, healing the injury with a wave of her wand. "Before it scars."

Potter pushed himself from the wall with a small frown, and Draco realized that he had stopped walking- a mistake; it was always infinitely harder to start up again once you'd paused like this. And yet, he made no move forward, merely stared as the dark-haired man stepped closer. His hands were perfectly smooth and pale, fingers even manicured. Draco curled his own fingers into his palms, to hide the red splotches and calluses already forming.

"Look, I don't really fancy a conversation. I have an appointment, you see."

"You could cancel it."

"I could, yes, but I'd really rather not." Still no movement to resume his walk.

"I think you should, though."

"As hard as this may be to believe, Potter, I don't actually give a damn what you think."

A brief flicker of hurt flashed across his face, gone so quickly Draco could have imagined it. "Of course you care what I think," he said, and then continued over Draco's retort. "You care what everyone thinks of you- the press, the public, _everyone._ So, yes, you care what I think. And I think you should leave it."

"How did you even find out? It's not your business."

"I suppose not. But you're certainly talking to me about it."

"And now I'm done. Glad that's sorted." Curse his stupid, _stupid _feet for not obeying. He'd be late now, and the hag would probably charge him even more for the trouble.

"It's not, though. You haven't made up your mind."

Draco scoffed. "Talented you may be, Potter, you're not a mind reader."

"I'm a lack of leaving reader," he said smugly.

Draco soured. "Excuse _me _for not wanting to offend our precious Savior and his hordes of admirers."

"I don't see any around, though, do you?"

"Because most normal people are asleep at this hour- don't you have a job, Potter? One that requires the utmost reflexes which should not be dampened by sleep deprivation?"

"I'm doing my job now, actually," he said evenly.

"For Merlin's sake- it's a healing parlor, not some Death Eater front!"

"I know. We've been checking all new vendor permits."

"You see? Nothing nefarious at work, no evil plots afoot. Nothing worthy of The Chosen One's attention."

"Not about the shop, no."

"So why are you still here?"

Potter just sighed. "I'm not even sure anymore..."

"Well, while you figure it out, I am going to be on my way." Draco said primly, folding his cloak tighter around his shoulders.

"No, wait- I'm here for the reason I said. I think it's a mistake."

Draco had made his fair share of mistakes in life, thank you very much, and he knew by now how to recognize them, and this- this was perhaps the best idea he'd had in months, and no one was going to convince him otherwise. Potter, with his infuriating stubbornness, was going to keep on trying, though. Tiny streams of pink were beginning to trickle across the sky, and Draco felt the crunch of time acutely. He'd have to change his strategy.

"Look, Potter," he said tiredly. "It's all well and good for you and your golden pals to parade around, but it just won't work for me."

He shook his head. "Most of my friends agree with you, actually. Hermione got hers done almost the day this place opened."

"And did you give her the third degree about it?'

"No, but- it's different. She works in the Ministry. There's a whole nother layer involved, what with regulations and official stances and everything."

Draco was surprised Potter understood even that much about the workings of the Ministry. He seemed uncomfortable discussing it, though, tugging at his (obviously over-starched) collar as he was. "Well, there are mitigating circumstances- what you so eloquently call 'a whole nother layer-' here too."

"I know that. No, really, I do. I understand the impulse... It's- it's all people see, and because they see it they think they know you and they expect things from you you can't or won't give- I know what you're going through, trust me. And I still think it's a horrible idea."

"Well you know what _I _think is a horrible idea? Walking around with a target on my back, everywhere I go, and being afraid I'll add one to someone else just by being around them. Never being able to take a full, deep breath, even in my home because someone could be hiding behind every corner. Hearing insult after insult directed at you, your House, your family, and having to just take it. Begging and pleading for the most demeaning, menial jobs imaginable and then not being allowed the slightest leeway, the briefest grace period, the tiniest deviation from perfection. And then you, sitting there, who receives nothing but adulation and praise, gifts and promotions handed to you on a silver platter, you expect me to put up with it? Not to do whatever I can to remedy the situation?"

"I want you to do just the opposite, actually. The thing of it is-"

"No, Potter," Draco all but screamed. "Just stop, ok? You _don't _understand. We've all been through the war, you say; we've all suffered. But I _caused _the suffering. I did horrible, evil things. It's all well and good for you to preach leaving these as reminders, because you have the advantage of being right. Of being on the side of good. You did things _worth_ remembering."

"Why did the war happen?" Potter asked, completely out of the blue. Draco would have wondered if he'd been paying attention, but he had been watching the other's eyes, saw the shades of emerald shift to match his words. There was no guile there, no pity, only kindness and an even brighter gleam of determination.

So Draco answered, "Because hundreds of us joined The Dar- He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named in his quest for power."

Potter shook his head. "No. You think Voldemort's beliefs sprung out of his mind fully formed? The biases, the prejudice, the groundwork was all there long before he was even born. _That's _why the war happened, because of these divisions and preconceived notions and just a lack of understanding."

"But without, without... Voldemort," Draco had never said the name before, but as he did something amazing happened: he felt his shoulders unclench a little, his chin raise. A little spark of... something, nibbled briefly at his heart.

Potter smiled hugely, flat-out _beamed_, and it was almost like the sun had risen. "You see now? Do you understand why it's so important that you keep it? We've been afraid to talk about these deeper issues for so long, just like we were afraid to talk about Voldemort, before. But unless we do, we can't ever get our power back from it. That mark on your arm is a part of you, Draco, but not _all _that you are. We need to start seeing you for you, Pansy for Pansy, Snape for Snape and not just as a Death Eater. Or a Slytherin or a pureblood or _any _of those labels that have been dividing us. Because if we don't, we're given the next delusional megalomaniac a ready platform for recruiting."

"I understand that, now," Draco said slowly. He wondered if a part of him hadn't understood it from the beginning. "But, it's... it's so hard, Harry - Potter. Facing the ridicule, the sneers, and then the damn press riling it up even further."

"Believe me, I know," he said. He raised his right hand and Draco saw the words etched there, _I must not tell lies,_ looking in the orange light of the dawn as if they were freshly carved and bloody. He'd heard rumors about Professor Umbridge, of course, and this looked to be confirmation. Vaguely, he remembered the climate surrounding the incident, with the _Prophet _publically denouncing Harry as a liar and the public turning against him. Perhaps... perhaps he could relate, in some ways.

"On the surface, it may not seem like our situations are similar, but if you look closer, you start to see it," Harry continued earnestly. "Isn't that a worthy goal?"

"Undeniably," Draco agreed. "It _is, _and I want to help, but Har- Potter-"

"You can call me Harry," he said softly.

Draco smiled tremulously. "I- That's just it. You're _you, _and I'm not. I don't have your strength."

"You're much stronger than you think," he said. "And as for me- most of my strength comes from my friends. You don't have to be a pillar, Draco. You can let other people prop you up when you're down."

"People... the time!" said Draco suddenly, just now remembering why it was he had been out so early. The shops would be opening any minute; already some of the curtains were rustling, doors creaking. Early-morning shoppers wouldn't be far behind.

"It's ok," said Harry. "It'll take some time, but they will come around. You don't need to be ashamed anymore."

Harry held out his hand. Slowly, Draco rolled up his sleeve to reveal the mark, a faded grey now but still well-defined, raised above the rest of his alabaster skin. He looked over again at the words etched into Harry's skin, a reminder of terrible pain and hardship. When Draco was little, his mother had healed his cut to prevent it from scarring, to erase from the record the injury. But Draco still remembered. The war was infinitely bigger than a scraped knee, and people would likely never forget what they endured. Even if he got the Mark removed, everyone would still remember who he was and what he did. The point of scars wasn't to remind you of the past- you did that well enough on your own- but to guide your actions into the future.

Smiling, Draco looked Harry right in the eye, reached out and grabbed his hand. Harry squeezed it gently in return, conveying pride and hope and joy and more in that touch and in his emerald eyes glowing in the light of a glorious golden sunrise.


End file.
